


Everything the Devil Can't Be

by antebellumdays



Series: In Another Life [2]
Category: ACCA13区監察課 | ACCA 13-ku Kansatsuka
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artistic Liberties, Lilium is a power bottom and that's not very important to the story but I want to make it known, M/M, Mild Internalized Homophobia, Non-Linear Narrative, Some porn with a plot, The bureaucratic world of academia, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 04:57:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15259908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antebellumdays/pseuds/antebellumdays
Summary: Surely they cannot hope to outlive their sins.or;an elaboration on Grossular and Lilium's relationship, which was in the background of the heavily Jeanino-focused AU ficGotta Get Mine (Gotta Get Yours). It is necessary to read that story before reading this one.





	Everything the Devil Can't Be

**Author's Note:**

> to open this: i hope i'm not problematic because lilium is problematic.
> 
> anyway — this is just some self-indulgent ramblings about what was going on with grossular and lilium during my jeanino fic, [_gotta get yours (gotta get mine)_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13206171) please read that one first or this won't make any sense at all!
> 
> this fic is very scattered but well-intentioned, and once again dedicated to my wonderful and only acca-13 friend, sonia! check out her [art instagram](http://www.instagram.com/ms.alpacaxx)! she has some great acca-13 art there to peruse, including some fanart of my very own jeanino story. <3
> 
> (title taken from the song "glory" by dermot kennedy.)

The house creaks incessantly, seeking to settle even though it has had years to do just that. Grossular, despite how loudly his airs speak of tradition, enjoys open, modern spaces. For all the time that he has lived on this coast, he has owned a pretty little white beach house. In the mornings, he goes out and drinks his morning tea on the wide porch, looking over the cold, turbulent waves known to this part of the state.

Lilium’s home is an old thing, well-kept but still fraught with the inevitable decay of age. It’s one of those old Bay houses that sits on top of a large hill — incredibly, almost uncomfortably fitting, for a man who carries himself with all the airs of a noble heir from the pages of Edwardian novels about which Grossular’s academic papers wax lyrical. He lives closer to the university, a comfortable twenty minute drive compared to the onerous hour that Grossular must spend five times a week in commute to their shared workplace.

“This old place is a sentient being on days like these. Its tired joints ache with the cold of the rain,” Lilium murmurs as he emerges from the kitchen and enters the living room, wine glasses and bottle in hand. Grossular turns to look at the smaller man from his position in front of the window, where plump wet drops of water are making a rhythm out of the _pitter patter, pitter patter_.

“You might have been a poet.” When Lilium extends the glass out, he takes it willingly.

“Isn’t that your niche?” His pithy comment is accompanied by a sly, narrow smile and a quick wink.

“I wasn’t quite satisfactory enough. There _is_ reason behind the saying that those can’t do teach instead.”

Tonight, Lilium has brought out an old bottle of red; the stream pouring into the glass held in Grossular’s hand is a mesmerizing sight, an omen and a blessing all at once. The omen comes when Lilium’s hand, occasionally prone to shaking if his blood sugar is low, quivers and a few drops of the ancient wine fall onto the beige carpet under their feet. It leaves behind a haunting notion:

The universe knows what they have been doing.

Surely the whispers of their escapades (mostly one-sided) over these many years have been laced tightly into the fabric of heaven. Surely they cannot hope to outlive their sins.

Surely they do not deserve that much. With certainty — they do not deserve that much.

“Ah.” Irritation befalls his sharp features, the corners of his mouth twitching. Grossular has seen this look on his face often, has witnessed it enough to recall it as the default expression on Lilium’s face when he is in bed alone (a rarity) and closes his eyes, picturing the man who is rarely ever not by his side.

“Do you have club soda?” The taller man sets his glass down, and then takes Lilium’s empty glass from his lax hold to do the same with it. He examines the stains: Three spots, all different sizes but relatively small. It will not be difficult to fix. “I’ll take care of it for you.”

“Leave it.”

The uncharacteristic gruffness of the refusal takes Grossular by surprise, heat hinting at his face. He wouldn’t be with Lilium in this capacity if he was not charmed by the occasional harshness, but choosing to ignore a red wine stain does not fall within the acceptable limits of said roughness.

“In a few hours, removal will no longer be possible.”

“I don’t _care_ , Grossular,” grits out Lilium, fingers moving up to his strained temple. “I’ll buy a new one. My priority right now is to drink this wine, and then promptly take you to bed.”

The heat on his face persists.

What is there to say to that; what reaction is suitable other than a meaningful nod?

They were both raised to be gentleman, to say things daintily and express themselves to the world in a politely restrained manner at all times; to this day their upbringings persist as mostly determinate factors in their everyday lives. It’s all different when they are alone, though, and especially when they are together. Over the years, Grossular has learned to be more relaxed around Lilium, and has lost his fear of embarrassing himself around the man he almost shares a life with at this point, and certainly shares a bed with.

Lilium has done the same. This is why he raises the bottle to his lips and takes a deep swig, throat flexing and Adam’s Apple bobbing with the immense effort. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and hands the bottle over to Grossular, a quick jerk letting him know that Lilium expects him to follow suit. He does, taking in as much as Lilium did, and feeling the warmth caress his chest.

Knowing better than to waste time on words, Grossular leans down the few inches necessary and presses his lips to Lilium’s still slightly wet ones; he tastes like the wine, a lush rich fragrant fruit taste that fills him up, makes him want more. Lilium kisses him back lazily before his wine-free hand is on Grossular’s shoulders and pushing him away.

“Dance a waltz with me.”

Not a question, nor a request — it is a demand.

Grossular isn’t very skilled at saying no to Lilium’s demands, but at this one he expresses confusion. “Now? Why?”

“It’s been a long time since you danced with me,” murmurs Lilium, lifting Grossular’s left hand to kiss his knuckles while he speaks, “and we have to indulge our inner rich boys sometimes."

A swallow preludes his response. Eyes intent on his lover’s face, Grossular says, “To what will you have us dance?”

Lilium moves away towards his speaker, plugging in the iPod resting beside it.

“Chopin’s Op. 64 was not what I learned with,” he says, “but I mastered it early on, and have never forgot it. Do you know it?”

“I do. My mother was fond of it.”

“Then this is a night dedicated to the past,” lifting the wine bottle up in a one-sided cheer, Lilium drinks and then again hands it to Grossular, who takes a few steps forward in the living room and drinks again as well, “and we have much for which to be thankful.”

Lilium removes the bottle from Grossular’s hands, placing it next to the speaker; with all the raw grace in the world, his hands snake up and he wraps his arms around Grossular’s neck.

“When you pray, what do you tell God you are grateful that He has given you?”

Grossular finds no need to verbalize the response, which finds itself written in the way he gazes down upon the shorter man.

The notes, in the minor key, commence, and so does their waltz.  


 

 

* * *

 

 

Quite regrettably, Grossular does think about God.

He used to think about God much more often. Now he only thinks about God when he thinks about what he has done — what he and Lilium have done, what he has done because he feels something for Lilium that is love, by some definitions, and obsession, by most others.

God forgives. Grossular knows this.

He only wishes it was God’s forgiveness that he desires.

 

* * *

 

It happens on an uncharacteristically hot day, his students squirming and sweating into their old university desk chairs.

“I urge you all to look beyond the essayistic formula used in this work,” Grossular paces across the width of the room, hands held behind his back and head slightly bowed forward. All that can be heard is the scratching harmony made by many moving pens. It is music to his ears. “Approach Machiavelli as you would any Austen novel, or perhaps even as you would approach a Joyce novel. There is poetry behind what he has to say about power.”

When he sees the raised hand, it does not surprise him, and he gestures towards the man to which it belongs.

“By all means.”

Putting his hand down, the man says, “What do you think Machiavelli would say about the modern university calling his work poetic?”

Grossular is unfazed by the question, and even more so by the individual posing it. He saw the man enter his classroom, out of place amongst the students, but had recognized him from the headshot on recent staff update emails.

“What do I think?” He says this as he makes his way towards the center of the room, tilting his gaze upwards and considering the inquiry for a dragging second. “All language is poetic, at its core. It is poetic to create language. We are always choosing our words specifically for a given situation, manipulating our language to give way to what we not only trying to say, but trying to prove. Is there not something poetic about this purposeful manipulation? The art of persuasion _is_ an art, and of this art Machiavelli was a master.”

“Well.” Lilium — his name is Lilium, Grossular remembers this very well about the university’s new Political Science chair — has a fire in his eyes that Grossular has not seen directed towards him in a long time. “How could anyone pose a justified rebuttal against that?”

When the class is over, Lilium lingers even while the usual flurry of students rush to ask Grossular menial questions about the assigned readings that they could very well ask during office hours or, even better, in an email. But he humors them, as he always does, and all the while is profoundly aware of his new colleague’s looming presence.

And it is a large looming presence, especially for a man so small in stature.

Grossular knows better than to judge a man by his height. He can see the bite in Lilium’s demeanor, the makings of a ruthless politician embedded in his hard eyes.

If only that was the only thing embedded in his eyes.

“I thought it best that we meet as soon as possible,” says Lilium, wasting no time beating around the bush after the students have all cleared out. At this, Grossular raises an eyebrow.

“Are you recruiting for your next research project?” He remembers this as well, but not from staff emails — from Mauve, who is his most dedicated source of bureaucratic drama in academic circles. “You have the wrong department.”

“You got your start at Brown, with a dual degree in English and Political Science.” Lilium isn’t quite smiling, although there is something mildly pleasant — happy? — about his face right now. “Why did you end up here, and why in the English department?”

Grossular grows still. “Do you always ask such complicated questions of strangers?”

“We aren’t strangers, Professor.” Now Lilium is smiling. “I’ve read your book on the politics of Robespierre during the French Revolution cover to cover twice. It feels as if we are already quite good friends, although you have yet to critique my work. Delving into someone’s mind, and understanding their argument, is a deeply intimate circumstance.”

“I’m flattered, but confused. Have you critiqued my work?”

“Only journalistically. At times, I have been asked to review endeavors such as your own. Let the armchair historians know what books are and aren’t worth reading. You’ll be glad to know that your book was highly recommended by my review.”

It’s been a long time since Grossular has wanted to know someone this badly.

“Is that why you wanted to meet?” He still has to know, of course. This strange new coworker has invaded his space, forced him into conversation. It isn’t completely unwelcome, per se, although it is certainly strange.

“I was very much hoping we would become acquainted at the staff orientation.”

“Ah. Well, I only returned from France two days ago,” says Grossular, amusement on his now curved lips. “Quite understandably, it was an excused absence.”

“You hardly missed the event of the year. It was rather stilted, and, pardon my ego, an overwhelmingly dull reiteration of what should already be old hat for any halfway decent academic.”

Lilium pauses, rather purposefully, and adds, “But I’m the ‘new guy,’ so I will refrain from further commentary.”

“I’m not that susceptible to offense.” Grossular picks up his briefcase from under his desk, settling his oversized copy of _The Prince_ under his arm. Almost naturally, Lilium follows him out, trailing so slightly behind that he is essentially at his side.

So Grossular continues the sentiment as they move into the hallway, wordlessly deciding to head toward the building that houses both of their offices. “I know this university’s worth, and my own as well. Your criticism, while surely valid, does not wound me.”

“Is that why you decided to come here, instead of remaining with the Ivies?”

“There are many reasons I’m here,” Grossular says, instinctively opening the door to outside and letting Lilium pass first. They enter the oppressive heat together, continuing down a cobbled gray path. It is busy today — students are everywhere, some of them running, others simply sitting anywhere they can find shade. The bright, optimistic eyes of first days are everywhere. “Although you must see that the same question can be asked of you — Harvard is feeling your absence, I am sure.”

“Why else would I ask?” Lilium is looking at him, Grossular can feel it. He does not meet the shorter man’s gaze, instead continuing to stare ahead. “Perhaps our reasons for retreating into the Outside Lands are similar.”

“I’d hardly make light of the San Francisco Bay Area.”

“Everything is light outside of the Ivies, or have you forgotten that already?”

“I never made a habit of subscribing to elitism.”

“I’m not implying that you ever did, only that elitism is inescapable even for the most humble. It surrounds us. Even here, it exists in abundance. Any college student is predisposed to think of themselves as in a privileged position, even in this country. The same is true for college professors.”

“Grossular!”

Mauve is suddenly in his line of vision as he looks over his shoulder to see her rushing forward to catch up with them.

“Heading to the department meeting?” She catches her eyes on Lilium, and they widen slightly before returning to normal. “Ah, Professor Lilium — we met briefly a few days ago.”

Considering the unexpected interruption, he had forgotten. It embarrassed him to think that this Lilium, this stranger — despite protests claiming otherwise — had the power to make him forget about a meeting that he was leading in fifteen minutes.

“Of course,” says Lilium, all smooth smiles and pleasantries suddenly. “Professor Mauve, yes? How could I forget? Don’t let me hold you two back from official business, though — I was just about to part ways with our dear Grossular here.”

Grossular has a feeling that this isn’t over. In fact, he has the strangest feeling that this is only a beginning.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, _Professor_.” Emphasized, but in good humor.

“Likewise. Here’s my card. I would very much like to pick your brain further.”

Their hands touch when Grossular takes the card, and it is embarrassing. Mauve does not notice, thank goodness.

When they part ways, it isn’t for the last time.   


* * *

  
Coffee becomes lunch, and lunch becomes dinner, which becomes more after that.

Grossular, much later, can still clearly remember the first time that Lilium pulls him into a kiss. It takes them three months to get there, but it’s good when it happens. It’s better than good — it’s soft, gentle, caring. Standing there, in the open on Grossular’s front porch at midnight after a particularly grueling discussion about Middle Eastern politics, Lilium grips Grossular’s hair as he straddles his lap, pushing them too close for comfort (like everything he does) and kissing Grossular carefully. Testing the waters. Seeing if Grossular wants it. Even now, after all of that confidence and underneath that casual, confident strut that he does, Lilium is weary about making a move.

So Grossular wraps his arms around Lilium, and kisses him back, and it’s right.

And he remembers what Lilium said to him that night, too.

 _You don’t know how much you tempt me._ Whispered with intent into his left ear, hot breath tickling his skin.

Unspoken, by Grossular:

Neither do you.  


* * *

 

  
Lilium collapses on Grossular’s chest, spent, red-faced and sweating as he pulls away from the cock now as limp as his own. Grossular watches him under hooded, equally as spent eyes, trailing his gaze down to the other man’s wet mouth. He can feel slick thighs rubbing against his own. It should be uncomfortable, gross, even, and is instead as heavenly as anything that Grossular’s mother could have produced from her King James bible.

“Goodness.” Lilium closes his eyes, rolling off and settling next to Grossular now.

“I agree,” murmurs Grossular, turning over so he can see Lilium properly. Their sex isn’t cold, nor completely devoid of feelings — it never was, and both of them know that. So they both never hesitate to stay over, falling asleep in one another’s bed constantly. Post-coital cuddling isn’t off the table either, it’s just…

“Oh, come here.” Clearly, Lilium has picked up on his shyness. It embarrasses Grossular that Lilium is always aware of his shyer moments. He doesn’t lack confidence, he only lacks it in the same levels as Lilium.

They settle into each other’s arms, Lilium’s face in the crook of Grossular’s neck.

“Let’s pretend morning isn’t coming.”

Sometimes Lilium says things that surprise Grossular. He’s learned to appreciate the man’s natural ability to shock others with his succinct frankness, never bothered by such crude bluntness. It’s not the honestly that continues to shock him, though. It’s the things like these ones.

Perhaps this is the trick of cruel fate. They are never going to be a happily married domestic couple arguing over what groceries to buy and picking out names for their children. Lilium doesn’t want that, has made it clear that he never wants that.

Grossular didn’t want that before Lilium, and that’s the problem.

Further complicating the situation are the little things that Lilium says – little things like _that_.

He falls asleep clinging onto Lilium because there is no security to be found in this rendezvous, and every time could be their last.

It’s not _sex_ , but it isn’t _making love_.

Most days, it’s _need_.

Grossular never doubts that Lilium is perfectly aware of the depth of his feelings. There’s nothing that man isn’t privy to, Grossular has learned, and that includes his innermost anxieties and desires. Lilium is charismatic and perceptive. Few are able to hide secrets from him.

He wonders why the man never did pursue a career in politics when he very well could be a high-ranking official, perhaps even holding a position in the White House itself.

Lilium’s answer was singular, memorable.

“I’ve never been interested in taking over an already established kingdom,” he told Grossular, eyes shining, San Francisco wind blowing his shiny black (and somehow not graying yet) hair up and out of his eyes. “I want to build something with my own hands. That’s why I also decided not to involve myself in my family’s business dealings, or their current affairs in West Asia. I do not want a legacy, my dear Grossular – I want to create a legacy.”

That is his fatal flaw.

Ambition.

All Grossular can do is shut his eyes against the tide and pretend it isn’t overcoming him more and more every day, this torrid obsession he has with the man who shares his bed more often than not.

If God hears his prayers, He sends no indication.  


* * *

  
Grossular is very aware of Lilium’s plan from the beginning. The logistics of it aren’t something he contemplates often. It is the morality of it all that he considers.

Not once, however, does he consider turning Lilium in, or somehow thwarting his plan. He knows this as inherently as he knows how to breathe. Turning him in would take him away from his bed, from his arms, from his sight, but not from his heart.

His obsession is never muted in Lilium’s eyes, it seems, because Lilium tells him, very candidly, about his ambitions shortly after they start — whatever it is they start after that first kiss and first night together.

How gone he must be for this man, Grossular thinks, if he knows without a doubt that he can trust him to keep his secrets.

That makes him complicit.

“I’m not weak.”

It surprises Grossular that these words emerge from his own mouth. Lilium looks up from his laptop rather slowly, as if he can’t be bothered to immediately divide his attention from whatever work it is he is doing. They usually grade together on Friday evenings, getting work out of the way before the weekend fully sets in.

“Would I be with someone who is?”

Grossular smiles. He isn’t sure why, or what the smile means. “This isn’t about you.”

“A lot of things are about me, for you.” Lilium shrugs, then sighs and closes the computer, setting it down on Grossular’s desk. They are sitting across from each other, Lilium working on his laptop and Grossular working on actual paper. They differ in their approaches to teaching.

Because Grossular says nothing more, only staring at Lilium in a clear dare to make eye contact, it is Lilium that breaks the prolonged silent pause.

“You think I’m corrupt, and deride yourself for going along with me.”

He still says nothing.

“Morality is relative, Grossular,” continues Lilium, persistent as always. “And, as much as you might believe, you’re not innocent. Some part of you is more than simply passive — you believe in me, even if you do not care to acknowledge it for yourself. So rest easy.”

“It has never been a question of whether or not you are capable,” says Grossular, finally.

“Inaccurate phrasing, then,” says Lilium, standing up. He walks around the desk, eyes never leaving Grossular’s own. “You believe in my mission.”

Now he is practically in Grossular’s lap, pushing the wheeled chair further out with his arm as he presses against Grossular. He is always like this. Lithe, sudden, unexpected, somehow always graceful. Maddening.

“We were having a much needed conversation.” But Grossular isn’t going to put up a fight, and Lilium knows this. Lilium uses this.

“Dearest, don’t work yourself up,” Lilium says, voice too saccharine for Grossular to believe that he is saying this with only affection as his motive. No, Lilium is too much of a Machiavelli. He knows how to manipulate language.

The irony.

Lips press against his forehead. Grossular is paralyzed under his touch for a few moments, and then loosens up so he can cup Lilium’s face where it hangs above him.

“I worry,” he says, “about you.”

“Without reason.”

“What would the correct reaction be, in your eyes?”

Lilium caresses his cheek, eyes teasing despite the serious subject matter. “In a perfect world, we could rule somewhere together. Conquer together. Show everyone that the world can be saved from its own self-righteous sense of bureaucracy.”

“I barely understand your politics most of the time,” says Grossular, "and I fail to see how the American university system has anything to do with it.”

“Education is what so many of these failed politicians lack. This is part of my solution.”

“Anyone else would call you delusional.” It has to be said. A lot has to be said, but he can’t – and won’t — possibly say it all.

Lilium looks as if he is genuinely taking this into account. It’s an illusion, but for a moment it is real. Then he comes back to himself.

“You know I do not use my given name. Have I told you why?”

Grossular shakes his head. Lilium presses his mouth to Grossular’s forehead again before continuing.

“Because, like many other Muslim boys born in the States, I was given a name that means ‘servant.’” Lilium’s hands, laced behind Grossular’s neck now, tremble. It is diabetes or silent anger, and it doesn’t matter. “And I am no servant.”

At that, Grossular smiles. “It is not weak to serve.”

Lilium kisses him. It is filthy, wet, open-mouthed. They both come out of it with moans on the back of their throats.

“Convince me of that,” says Lilium, “and I will give you the world.”  


* * *

  
Time passes, as time does.

Watching Lilium never becomes dull, even at his most predictable moments. Grossular knows he can count on the man to remain charming, almost cunningly so, and also to knock everyone’s socks off time and time again.

It’s most fascinating to watch him on a stage, commanding not only the attention of everyone in the room but their attitudes as well. When he is given an award five years into his career as Chair of the Political Science department, no one is doubtful of his merit. Even so, he seals the deal with a particularly inspiring speech.

“Do you ever wonder why he’s a teacher and not a politician?” Mauve whispers to Grossular. They are seated in the third row from the front, Grossular making sure not to appear as if he is giving Lilium more attention than is necessary.

“I’d suggest asking him for yourself, but he is not a fan of providing a clear cut answer to that question.”

The pause on Mauve’s end is almost tangible. “Are you two friends? You mention him often, lately.”

Grossular values Mauve more than she will ever know, no question, but at times like these he resents the extent of their camaraderie. After ten years of working so closely together, she has the right to question his personal life. She has been in it for double the time that Lilium has.

In another world, he might come clean. This simply isn’t that world.

“Only in a professional capacity. We may co-author a paper.” That much, at least, is true.

“I see.”

They’ll both comfortably pretend that isn’t a blow to Mauve’s ego, that Grossular would choose to publicly collaborate with Lilium before collaborating with her.

As Lilium leaves the auditorium stage, he immediately presses his phone to his ear and rushes out of the room, award under his arm. Grossular excuses himself and leaves through another exit. He wants to congratulate Lilium privately — not intimately, per se, but away from wandering eyes.

Fate has other plans, it seems, because Lilium, in his haste, has already emerged in the conference room adjacent to the auditorium where refreshments and a few bored, loitering colleagues of theirs are lingering while more awards are given out.

Grossular knows immediately that something has gone wrong. He just isn’t sure what.

“Not here,” says Lilium, fast, a little red-faced. In an unspoken agreement, they walk out into the cold night air and an empty parking lot. The main campus is visible from where they stand, the moon high over the clock tower that rises above every other building.

“I’m flying to New York as soon as possible.” Lilium is already scrolling rapidly on his phone, presumably booking a 4 AM or 5 AM flight out of San Francisco and across the country.

“Has something happened to your family?”

“Only common stupidity,” spits out the shorter man. Then, frustrated, he shuts off his phone and puts it in his pocket. His eyes are narrow, his fists are clenched. It isn’t easy for Grossular to see him like this, because seeing the true face of his rage is almost enough to make him see what is wrong with this arrangement.

“Lilium,” says Grossular. Quietly, calmly. An attempt to ground the other.

It works. He looks up into Grossular’s questioning gaze, and sighs.

“My parents have decided it is time for me to meet with my fiancée in person,” he says, face more wrinkled in dissatisfaction than Grossular has seen in awhile, “and give her a definitive answer.”

Grossular doesn’t know the correct response is, only that he has to ask: “Are you not completely separate from your religion by now?”

“She’s not the good Muslim daughter of good Muslim parents,” snorts Lilium. “She’s an American corporate heiress. Well, to be more accurate — she is third in line for the metaphorical throne. I was supposed to be a politician, and she was supposed to be a respectable First Lady. It did not quite work out the way our parents orchestrated. These are the gimmicks of rich families.”

“I know those gimmicks. But I unattached myself from my own fiancée a long time ago. These arrangements are just empty formalities,” says Grossular. “You are no servant to formalities.”

“No,” agrees Lilium, but he does not look so convinced. “I simply thought it best to keep her on as an...option.”

Grossular smiles. It is not a kind smile. “You are forty years old and completely uninterested in women.”

“I will never let the public know about my proclivities. Surely you can’t think me foolish enough to…” Lilium waves uninterestedly into the night air, as if that somehow aids the making of his already moot point. “To parade the streets as an activist for queers. Think about who I am, Grossular.”

The lack of a response is enough to press the smaller man on. “And who are you to speak on the matter? We both prefer our lives to stay behind closed door, closet or otherwise.”

“I wouldn’t deny it if anyone asked.”

“Well, thank goodness that no one is asking, then, if that is all that is keeping us from being exposed!”

The smile is unwavering. “I meant about my own orientation, Lilium.”

Their eyes stay connected for an almost unbearable few more seconds before Lilium shakes his head and says, “Will you please call me an Uber? My phone is dying. I need to purchase an airplane ticket immediately.”

Before he does so (because how can he ever deny Lilium anything for which he asks?) he says, very quietly, “You should not keep on giving her hope that the two of you will ever be married.”

“What do you think I’m going to New York to do?” It’s almost a snap. “And do _not_ get any ideas. I’ve been meaning to do this for a long time. It would have happened without you telling me to do it.”

After it has been confirmed that an Uber is on the way and will arrive in approximately three minutes, silence falls between them again. Lilium avoids looking at Grossular, almost retreated unto himself with one arm crossed and the other focused on finding the next open flight out of SFO.

“Will you water my plants while I’m gone?” The question arises so suddenly, and is said very quietly. “You already have a key, after all.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“Two nights, if all goes well.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“One.”

Of course he’ll water the plants, and of course it doesn’t matter. Lilium knows that, uses that, doesn’t truly care about that.

“You publicly identity as both an atheist and a conditional socialist. Yet you cannot bring yourself to emerge from the proverbial closet, so to speak. You are a servant to something.”

The car pulls up just as Lilium has gritted his teeth and clenched his fist again.

“Don’t talk about things you know nothing about,” is the only thing he says before entering the car and shutting the door.

Then there is only Grossular, and the empty night, and a promise to water plants.  


* * *

  
Lilium’s hands are on either side of Grossular’s neck, eyes closed as he pushes down on the taller man’s cock. Grossular’s eyes water, mouth open in an unsung moan.

“What a privilege to see you unwound,” whispers Lilium, bending down so his mouth moves against Grossular’s lips in the form of those words; his eyes are still closed, his fingers are loosening on Grossular’s neck.

Seeing an opening, and moved by a primal, innate desire he cannot define, Grossular grips Lilium’s hips and flips them over, swapping their positions.

“Wha—”

He captures Lilium’s questioning mouth before he can say anything else, and then positions himself along the rim of the other man’s ass again.

“This is uncharacteristic,” says Lilium, breathless, hands crawling down Grossular’s naked back. They are both sweaty, panting. The sheets — silk, and dark gray — on Lilium’s bed wrinkle with every one of Grossular’s thrusts.

Grossular doesn’t grace the observation with a remark, instead making quick work of sucking on Lilium’s collar bones — it is a particularly sensitive area, but it is rare for Grossular to be the one leaving behind marks that take days to fade.

“Mm.” Lilium’s hold on Grossular tightens, presumably in admiration. “Take control more often.”

He gives Lilium’s cock three quick strokes in response. “I wouldn’t want to threaten your need for control.”

“Is that what this is about?” Spoken in that breathless tone again. It is almost absurd that they are having a conversation while doing _this_.

And, because Grossular _is_ weak, he only says, “It isn’t about anything.”

Then he kisses Lilium again, their moans mixing together so they cannot tell which is their own.   


* * *

  
How the entire faculty and student body suddenly finds out about their affair is unbeknownst to them for a long time, until a year later they discover that a relatively new professor from the English department had seen them leaving together one night. Apparently a shared Uber was enough to spur his imagination, and unfortunately it turned out to be accurate.

At the time, however, it is only surreal.

They are side by side in bed, not touching, fully clothed, very quiet. Lilium says, “It could have been worse.”

“It could be. You could still have a fiancée.”

Lilium laughs, hearty and well-meaning. Grossular, for the first time in a long time, feels the spark of something he can only label as _hope_ .   


 

 

* * *

 

 

_  
Local university professors implicated in money laundering scandal, rumors of a coup arise. _

 

But that is tomorrow’s headline. It hasn’t broken them yet. Tonight there is the forgotten wine stain, and there is Lilium in Grossular’s arms, and Chopin’s Op. 64.

 

Surely they could never have hoped for anything more than this.

**Author's Note:**

> (shout out to anyone who can identify the location that inspired this au. write what ya know, ya feel?) 
> 
> also: sorry but jean and nino aren't in this because grossular has bigger problems and all of them are lilium.
> 
> also, again: i do not have a beta, so typos are probably present in this. on that note — if anyone wants to be my beta, that'd be cool. just putting that out there.
> 
> thanks for reading!


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